It’s Not The End Of The World

There was 58 miles between us and Finisterre, Spain and as we climbed the steep Camino trail out of Santiago stars faded into the ephemeral blue light of morning. Before there was a Camino, an apostle named James or even Christianity, pilgrims walked from many parts of Europe to stand on the cliffs of Finisterre. They believed it was the end of the world and from that knob of land they watched the sun melt into the waters where dragons and monsters lived. Or so they thought because the men who sailed west toward that setting sun never returned.

Today Finisterre is no longer thought of as the end of the world but pilgrims still walk hundreds of miles to see the sun melt into the frothy blue waves of the Atlantic. Some walk to demonstrate their religious devotion and the setting sun symbolizes the completion of that journey. Others see it as a beautiful act of nature and rejoice in the physical challenges they overcame during their hike. There are those at a crossroads in their life who walk for weeks through crushing heat, cold rains and hobbling pain in search of answers. And for some it’s simply a holiday with cheap wine.

The photographer and a most interesting pilgrim.

At one bend in the trail we stumbled upon a young photographer from America. He had set up an outdoor studio with a back drape, lights and a tripod mounted camera. “I am selecting only the most interesting pilgrims to photograph,” he proudly said.

The photographer went on to tell us about his Camino and the great business success he had prior to becoming a photographer, but he never asked about our Camino or how we ended up hiking the trail. It made me wonder how he determined which hikers were worthy of a photograph. Sue and I were about to depart when a young German woman walked up. She had the hard body and piercing eyes of a competitive athlete. She also must have been a most interesting pilgrim because before she could take a second breath the young photographer said, “I want to take your photograph.”

A view of the Tambre River from the restored Roman bridge, Ponte Madeira. The Galicia region of Spain.

We left the photographer to his work and followed the trail through lush woods, along twisting rural lanes and across a long low arching stone bridge that led to a small village of stone cottages. At the base of the bridge we slide off our packs to rest and absorb the hobbit-like world around us. The pause was long enough to give the German woman and a male friend of hers time to catch us. We all sat on the ground together sipping water, eating junk food and talking about our journey. “How did your portrait go?”, I asked.

Her brow crinkled and she sighed, “I think when someone takes your picture like that they should learn about you. He only talked about him. It was not good.”

The German woman then turned to Sue and asked, “When you hiked the Camino Frances, did it change your life?”

Sue answered in her typical slow and thoughtful manner, “For some people that seems to have happened, but I would not say it was life changing for me.”

“I know,” the German woman said in frustration. “I left a very good job to walk the Camino and now I am almost finished, but I still do not know what I should do next. I thought I would know that by now.”

Her American friend joined the conversation, “I just graduated with degrees in Philosophy and Psychology, but I want to be a writer. After walking all these miles across Spain I still have no idea how to get started.”

Both cyclist and hikers share the Camino trail between Finisterre and Muxia.

A long walk will strengthen your legs, give you the quiet time needed to discover lost memories and contemplate your future. You can brainstorm for weeks and go through ‘What-if’ scenarios for miles. But unlike a Hollywood movie your Camino may become stuck in Act Two and the ending you’re looking for may not be found in Santiago, Finisterre or even Muxia. It can be frustrating but hope should not be lost. Walking a Camino is similar to running a marathon, the full effect of the event will be felt sometime after you cross the finish line.

A Galician farmer returning from his fields.

We hiked the rest of the afternoon with the young couple and we all would have walked longer together but we had reservations in different towns. That night Sue and I stayed in a hostel adjacent to a dairy barn. Galicia’s small dairy farms, rolling hills and green pastures are beautiful to hike through in the morning mist, but if you are trying to clean your socks in the wash tub next to a barn full of cows the flies can get annoying.

A young albergue manager discovers moisturizing cream. Muxia, Spain

With 24 days of hiking, 18 days of city wandering and two years of high school Spanish under my belt, I was feeling cocky. My language skills were approaching that of a native. I chit chatted with the waitress then ordered a Shandy, a beer mixed with lemon soda, she returned with a smile and a coffee. Confused I slowly and clearly ordered the Pilgrim meal in Spanish. A few minutes later she returned with a smile and a glass of white wine. Still hungry and now aware my Spanish was unintelligible I opened the menu and pointed to the Pilgrim meal, she disappeared into the kitchen. Then I washed down some humble pie with a glass of white wine.

The last 19 miles of our 273 mile hike took us from Finisterre to Muxia along the Galician coast. This stretch of coast is famous for being an incredibly rich source of seafood for Europe and for being severely damaged by an oil spill in 2002. Since then the area has been rehabilitated and laws have been added to prevent it from happening again. From a hiker’s perspective the coast is idyllic, it has hidden coves, few people and long sandy beaches.

After weeks of sunshine it finally rains the last day of our Camino. A leaf near a tributary of the Castro River. Lires, Spain

We concluded our Portuguese Camino in Muxia, Spain on the rocks where Martin Sheen spread his sons’ ashes in the movie ‘The Way’. That day it also rained for the first time in weeks which helped us prepare mentally for our return to the Pacific Northwest.

The goal of my Camino was to go for a long walk across a country I had never seen, Portugal. Along the way I hoped a few strangers would share some of their time and thoughts with me – they did. They also made me feel welcomed, thankful for my good fortune and made me laugh. And like the young man with the German woman I too hoped to discover how to become a writer – I didn’t. But it’s not the end of the world. A Camino is just one moment in a lifetime of moments so it shouldn’t be under or over emphasized. With practice, hard work and a little luck I’ll discover how to become a writer. In the meantime I’ll keep exploring, photographing, talking to strangers, scribbling in my journal, and telling stories.

The trail from Tui to the Cathedral at Santiago de Compostela took us into the Galicia region of Spain. The language of Galicia is neither Spanish nor Portuguese but Galego, an amalgam of Latin and Portuguese with a few German and Celtic words tossed in. And because their traditional music has bagpipes, it sounds more Scottish than Spanish. The region is wet and lush and could be described as a cross between the Washington coast and the dairy lands of Wisconsin. For Sue and I, Galicia was the prettiest part of both our Camino Portuguese and Frances.

The corn cribs of the Galician region of Spain.

As we approached Santiago the number of hikers grew. We leap frogged each other repeatedly throughout the day and often slept across from each other at night. One pair of hikers that stood out was an elderly Polish grandmother and her ten year old grandson. She would trudge up the hills looking as if she was about to expire but hours later I would see her in the hostel scrubbing clothes in the wash tub and handing them to her grandson to hang up. We didn’t share a language but always greeted each other with a smile and some pantomime expressing how hot or tough the day was.

Padron Peppers

In Padron we tried the famous Padron Peppers, in fact we ate Padron Peppers three different times during our Camino including the last day of our hike in Muxia. To me the Padron Peppers are more of a clever idea than a delicious dish. They are small, roasted light green peppers, sprinkled with sea salt and have a mild flavor. But what makes them unique is that buried somewhere amongst those mild peppers is one hot pepper that looks like all the others. It turns eating peppers into a sport, you push yourself to eat more and more in search of that hot one. My theory is Padron Peppers was invented by a mother who wanted her children to eat more vegetables.

Speaking of childhood, sometime during my Boy Scout years when all mail was delivered by men in blue uniforms and coffee perked along side sizzling pans of bacon I was taught, “Watch what you say and say what you mean”. That was good advice back then and today I think it still is. That saying came to mind as we were visiting a small bookstore in Pontevedra, Spain. The other saying that came to mind was one I had learned in the Navy, “Never ASSUME because you will only make an Ass out of U & Me”.

The book store was small but had an exceptionally good selection so Sue and I strolled up and down every aisle. A woman around thirty years of age entered with a burst and started talking to the female owner about heading out to a pub after work. She encouraged the owner to close the shop early then glanced over at Sue and I and in her proper English accent said, “Well those two aren’t going anywhere fast”. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the owner look our way with an embarrassed expression, her friend continued to talk as if we were not there. She talked about the financial woes of the bookstore and the great things that the owner could be doing with her life if she sold the bookstore. The owner leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice as if she was confessing to her priest, in contrast her British friend responded as if she was in a pack of Harleys on her way to Sturgis.

Upon completion of our tour of the bookstore I walked up to the owner and her friend and in English said, “You have a beautiful bookstore and if I wasn’t walking the Camino I would have loved to have bought some of your books”. She thanked me for the compliment and as I stood there I could see her friend’s jaw strike the floor and her face turn as white as a cotton ball.

It took a moment for the British woman to find her voice but when she did she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were French”.

“No, we’re American” I said with a smile. Of course whether we were French or American was not the issue.

The Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, Spain.

Lighting the incense in the Botafumeiro just before it is lifted and swung above the congregation.

Even though we had a few more days of hiking to reach the Galician coast it felt good to enter Santiago de Compostela and visit the Cathedral. At the Pilgrim’s Mass the pews fill with packs and walking sticks and the air with the earthy aroma of burning incense. Hundreds of pilgrims sunburnt and sore hobble up to the altar for communion and just like in the movie ‘The Way’, men in medieval cloaks pull on ropes and send the silver Botafumeiro into the air spreading blankets of smoke over the pilgrims. At the exits new friends say goodbye and many tears and hugs are shared. Despite having seen a few Pilgrim masses and having stepped away from the Catholic church years ago, I would gladly attend another. But we have a few more days of hiking to do. The prettiest part of Galicia lies between Santiago and Muxia and that’s where we’re headed next.

We spent two nights in Ponte de Lima and by the time we ambled out, our hiking family had expanded to four, Sue, Lea, me and Molly. Molly was a blue eyed, porcelain skinned woman with shiny brown hair that sparkled in the sun like a mountain stream cascading over rocks. In an Irish brogue she told us she was attempting to put distance between herself and an unwanted admirer.

A local woman doing laundry at the public facility.

I had met Molly a few nights earlier at the pilgrim dinner. At the time I thought she was traveling with a Croatian man and apparently he did too. Molly’s view was different. “I was just being nice”, she said, “as I would to anyone. He asked me if I would loan him some money until his check cleared, I did and now I can’t get rid of him.”

Her admirer was not threatening, just annoying. Like that know-it-all girl in Bill Bryson’s book, A Walk In The Woods. And like Bryson’s character Katz, Molly also had moments when she felt sorry for her admirer and wondered how he would make it home. As we hiked along the three female voices with their distinct accents melded into one steady hum. They marched forward like a powerful threesome, Charlie’s Angels in dirty boots and sweat soaked shirts. Over the miles the two single woman in their thirties and Sue in her sixties shared their relationship experiences with men, all seemed to have fallen short of expectations. Past relationships were summed up in a few words like, “He never really knew me” or “I don’t know how I ever ended up with him”. During those miles I slunk a few steps behind and said nothing. But I did get a little nervous each time Sue started to speak.

Our team of four spent a total of five days together and during that time our family grew in number as it often does on long hikes. On the climb up Alto da Portela Grande we met a soft spoken Korean American woman with two young daughters. The oldest girl had just entered her teens. The woman said her husband was going to join them later but for the first couple of weeks mom was on her own. She admitted the oldest girl complained a lot during the early days of the hike. She didn’t want to be walking across Portugal with her family, she wanted to be home with her friends doing gymnastics. Her mom attributed her general irritability to just being a teenager. Mom persevered and moved her girls a little further north each day. The teen moved forward emotionally also and after a few days she began to enjoy the hike, especially talking to all the people. And being one of the youngest hikers on the trail she also received a little celebrity status.

The Camino has become popular with Koreans in recent years thanks to a Korean documentary about the trail and books by Korean Christian authors. In 2014 about 4,000 Koreans hiked the Camino. That made Koreans the 9th largest nationality on the trail, just behind the British and in front of the Dutch.

Further up the mountain we ran into a Brazilian family on mountain bikes. It was too steep and rough for them to ride so they were removing their panniers. They had planned to walk their panniers up first, then come back for their bikes. The great thing about carrying a light backpack is that after a couple of weeks of hiking you don’t really notice it. So Sue and I offered to carry their panniers to the top for them. It took a little persuading but they finally agreed to our offer. At the top of the mountain we all congratulated ourselves, shared the junk food and snacks we were carrying and gathered for a group portrait. There were North Americans, South Americans, Asians, Europeans, light skinned, dark skinned, teens, seniors, men and women. We were all strangers but yet also friends. We had shared an experience and achieved a common goal. Looking at the photograph of smiles and recalling the conversations I am sure there are more similarities between us than differences.

That afternoon the Korean family and our team of four crossed the Minho River and entered Spain, and that evening we shared a bunk room and a celebratory dinner. The Korean mother and I sat next to one another as we planned to share an octopus platter and across from us, with the energy and excitement that only a teenager possesses, her daughter talked about her experiences on the Camino. I heard no regret in her voice.

The time we spent with Lea and Molly was short but it was one of the highlights of our Camino and Molly’s unwanted admirer was never seen again.

As you can see our team was made up of late risers and we were the last to leave the hostel in the morning.

Cool air drifted through the albergue window that framed the slim blue neon cross that topped the adjacent church. As sunlight crept over the hills and fell upon the hedge rows cockerels cackled into the cool air proclaiming the start of another day. By the time I flushed, brushed and drug my pack down stairs most of the our flock were already on the trail marching north toward Spain. Breakfast was the crusty bread Sue bought from the baker who visited our pilgrim meal last night, but a fresh cup of coffee would come later after a few miles of walking.

Morning dew along the Camino Portuguese

The first mile or so was road walking then the Camino spilled onto a dirt path that thread through a valley of dew covered grasses and grape vines. A humble creek ran along side the trail then under the stone arch of a medieval bridge. It was early but not too early for farmers to be in the fields with hoes and bent backs. They fished weeds from the moist soil that anchored the knee-high corn stalks.

Weeding the corn, Portugal

The next stretch of asphalt led to a cafe filled with the smells and sounds of coffee being ground, milk being steamed and women chatting. By the time we started walking again the sun was showing its strength. In less than an hour all the dew was gone and sitting in the shade near the edge of the road was a barefoot woman. Like an unfaithful lover she had kicked her hiking boots aside. She and her footwear were at a turning point and words were not needed. Her blistered feet shouted why she sat barefoot along side an empty rural road.

“How’s it going?”

“My feet are killing me. I have used these boots before with no trouble, now they are killing me. They are shit.”

The tall thin woman was a straight talking German who could speak more languages than my high school language department offered. Some people make you smile because they can tell a joke or have an expressive face. British humor often comes from a dry wit and sarcasm. This woman, Lea, made me smile because she was so blunt and honest. She did not waste time with euphemisms nor did she hide her feelings. She was not a whiner or complainer but if things were “shit” she had no problem admitting it. And when she said that word she said it in such a manner that it did not sound foul or vulgar, it sounded like an objective assessment, a sum of numbers. Like when an engineer declares, “That structural support is insufficient for that load.” Lea would say, “That bridge is shit”.

After a few minutes of chatting about boots, blisters and where we were headed for the night, Lea asked, “Can I walk with you a while? Maybe it will stop me thinking about my feet.”

With a grimace she thrust her tortured feet back into her fickle boots. Despite the pain she set a strong pace.

“What do you do when you’re not hiking, Lea?”

“I teach design at university in Egypt.”

“That sounds exciting. How do you like teaching?”

“Sometimes one or two students are interested. Working with them is good but most are not interested. They are children of rich people, they go to school because their parents send them. Most would prefer to be wedding planners, not designers. They don’t use their brain, they don’t try. Their design drawings are shit.”

Doing the laundry, Portugal

The Camino took us through lush farmland, over hills, past white churches with acorn shaped steeples and under grape arbors that stretched from one side of the road to the other. Based on the size of the arbor nothing taller or wider than a small hay truck could travel those roads. A few miles later, on the banks of a small river Sue and I rested while Lea soaked her damaged feet and a mother and daughter stomped and scrubbed curtains in a bucket. For the final push into Ponte de Lima Lea changed into her Birkenstock sandals and lashed the boots to the outside of her pack.

Peas in a garden in Ponte de Lima, Portugal

We hiked through tunnels of flowers. I could only identify the roses but there were other species and their colors, textures and sweet fragrances made the hike into Ponte de Lima feel like a walk through a botanical garden.

Lea collecting the story of the old bike.

Ponte de Lima as the name implies is a city divided by the Lima River and connected by a ‘ponte’ or bridge. It was early afternoon when we crossed the river and on the far side sat three old men and one old bicycle. My guess is that most days you could find those men sitting there watching pilgrims, merchants, and pretty girls cross the bridge. The old bicycle was as weathered as the men. It was a traditional three-speed with a trigger finger shifter and rust pitted chrome brake handles. Everything that was once shiny and bright on that bicycle was now rusty brown. Even the blue and white paint had oxidized to a dull chocolate color.

To me an old man who rides a bicycle daily around town is admirable. An old man that rides the bicycle that he and his father bought when he was a schoolboy is closer to a legend. Thanks to Lea’s language skills I learned that the man bought the bicycle fifty years ago when he was a teenager and has ridden it ever since. Despite its age, rusted parts and odd seat angle (tipped skyward at a castratingly sharp angle) he swore it rode wonderfully.

The old bicycle with a threatening seat angle, Portugal

“Can I ride it?”

Lea translated my request and the old man responded by smiling widely and waving his arm toward the bike as if to say, be my guest.

I threw my leg over the bike, pushed off and with trepidation slowly lowered my tender parts toward the threatening seat. To my surprise as I placed more weight on the seat the tip ratcheted downward until it was parallel to the crossbar, a more reasonable angle for a bike seat. As I traveled over the cobbles the rusted seat springs creaked and the aged leather saddle molded to the curves of my buttocks as if we had met before. The comfortable seat combined with plump tires gave the bike a cushy, pillowy feel. It did ride wonderfully.

Reviewing chants before the start of the march. Woman’s March, Bellingham, Washington. January 21, 2017

I have no interest in making this blog political but for a change of pace I’m posting some photographs I took at the Bellingham, Washington ‘Woman’s March’. Women of all ages were represented, a few that could not walk used wheelchairs and I saw one on a mobility scooter. The local newspaper reported a few thousand marched. Based on the signs they carried the theme stretched far beyond women’s health issues. A few Trump supporters added an alternative view and waved their flag vigorously as the marchers passed by, but both sides were civil and relaxed. Since the election there have been a number of Anti-Trump marches. A few have turned into riots where police were attacked and injured and property and vehicles were destroyed. In contrast the Bellingham Woman’s March had a casual feel with lots of laughing, waving and selfies. Despite the cordial atmosphere I suspect President Trump has not heard the last from these women.

Our first few minutes of hiking took us across the medieval bridge, past the old mill, up the hill, and into the city of Barcelos, Portugal which is a combination of ancient-touristy and modern-real. I noticed while sitting at the cafe there were many twenty-somethings wearing suits and carrying thick books and briefcases. The stately brick buildings they moved in and out of were dappled in shade and sat in a sea of grass. I figured it was a university and attempted to confirm my suspicion by asking the waitress, “Is that a university?”

“No.”

Her brown eyes darted around as she searched for the proper English word. She offered a sentence in Portuguese and read my blank stare. Her brain looked again for the word that would describe to the illiterate American what he was looking at. But her internal dictionary was blank. The best she could do was reference American television, she pointed toward the buildings and said slowly, “Law and Order”.

It was a courthouse and those polished young people were a combination of lawyers and criminals. Or if it’s like America, some were both.

A six table general store, bakery and cafe staffed by one very efficient and pleasant worker. Portugal

After Barcelos the trail was mostly country lanes and dirt paths surrounded by fields full of corn, immature grapes and huge bulls with wickedly sharp horns. This stretch of the Camino linked small town cafes together like charms on a bracelet. Some were not towns really, just two roads that crossed. At one of those crossroads we found a six table cafe that served as a general store, cafe and bakery. That day it appeared to be staffed by only one young woman who baked the bread, made the sandwiches, cleaned the tables, answered the phone and collected the Euros. Despite having to deal with everyone that walked in and every issue that popped up, she smiled easily and often. It was muggy in there and I repeatedly wiped sweat off my face but it was better than sitting in the midday sun.

A little dustball trying to stay cool.

Sue trying to explain to her new shadow that he needs to turn around and go home.

The shadow keeps following.

Our final push took us down a few miles of asphalt and past a dusty grey dog sitting in a slimy puddle at the edge of the road. As soon as we past he pulled himself from the cool water and started following Sue. He had no interest in me, but followed Sue like an apostle, staying just out of arms reach. When we turned off the main road and started heading out of town he continued to follow. That’s when it started to look like he was going all the way to Santiago. Sue stopped and told him he was making a mistake and he should go home, if he had one. He respectfully listened but ignored the fine points, when she turned and started walking he followed. Then about a half mile later when the shade disappeared and the sun began to bake us all he decided it was time to head back to the puddle. Sue was relieved but also a little sad. Her little admirer was a four legged dust ball, but if you looked beyond the dirt and tangles, he was pretty cute.

Roadside entertainment on the Camino Portuguese Central.

We ended our day on the top of a hill at the albergue in Tamel S. Pedro Fin. It was an updated stone building, hospital clean and adjacent to an old church that was much smaller than the albergue. A few yards away was a bar that served dinner at seven. Nothing else was around, just farm fields. At seven we were herded across the street to the restaurant. It felt good to be among a flock again. We left Lisbon eighteen days ago and this dinner was the first time we were surrounded by pilgrims walking to Santiago. On the Camino Frances most nights were like this and during the day it was common to see a herd of pilgrims climbing the hill in front of you or sitting at the next table. Traveling in a bubble of hikers can be a pain, like when waiting for a shower. But it also provides a sense of camaraderie which makes a group meal a family reunion, even if you’re meeting for the first time.

The view of the church from my bunk room at the municipal albergue in Tamel S. Pedro Fins, Portugal

The waiter sat us at an L-shape set of tables on the terrace where the setting sun was partially blocked by the building. There were probably thirty to forty people in our flock. In such situations Sue and I try not to sit together. I sat between a Spanish man and Irish woman and within toasting range were people from Croatia, Portugal, Italy, Germany… English was the main language spoken but throughout the meal you could hear pockets of conversation in German, Spanish, Portuguese and other languages. If someone became stuck there was always someone else who could inject the missing word or proper grammar to clarify the thought. That’s another time it’s nice be part of a flock.

Ages ranged from teens to 60’s and neither birthdate nor country of origin seemed to matter. Young spoke to old, Europeans spoke to Americans and believers spoke to non-believers. One of the amazing things to me is how strangers from different cultures can come together so quickly and laugh and joke so easily. It becomes evident that a common language is nice but not necessary for communication. A head tilt, roll of eyes, grunt or just a look can communicate a thought and start a wave of laughter.

I didn’t know it at the time but some of my table mates would become hiking mates. We would spend the next four days together hiking through the heat and over the hills, share meals, bunk rooms and laughs, and become friends.

I had no idea who this person was when I took this photo but we ended up walking together for four days and parted as friends. The municipal albergue in Tamel S. Pedro Fins, Portugal

I was grateful for sunglasses that windy June morning we started heading north along the coast. Sunglasses make me think of celebrities and two that I associate with walking the Camino are Andrew McCarthy and Shirley MacLaine. Andrew McCarthy was a member of the 80’s ‘Brat-pack’ and starred in ‘Pretty In Pink, St. Elmo’s Fire, and many others. His ‘Brat-pack’ friend, Emilio Estevez, went on to write, direct and star in the movie ‘The Way’. But McCarthy was the one that actually hiked the Camino Frances in 1992. He did it on a whim and spent a long time at the Irun Cafe in Pamplona thinking he would end his Camino right there, but didn’t, and by the time he walked into Santiago he discovered that traveling brought out the best in him.

“I’m a better me when I travel,” McCarthy claims.

More long solo adventures followed, he started writing about them, won a few writing awards and is currently Editor-at-large for National Geographic Traveler. McCarthy is still an actor and has probably directed something you’ve seen on TV, i.e. Orange is the new Black, The Family, Black List…

The Portuguese Camino Coastal Route as it hugs the Atlantic Ocean.

Shirley MacLaine hiked the Camino Frances when she was sixty years old. She wrote a book about her experience, continues to perform (Downton Abbey) and will always be associated with the New Age movement (It’s not that new anymore). I was never a New Age, crystals and pyramids type of guy. But kids running down the beach, waves churning up the shore, and cyclists blitzing by in laser bright jerseys had an effect on me. That circus of energy spilled into my flaccid flesh and creaky bones like a double espresso and drove me over the dunes with a swiftness I could not explain.

Boardwalk along the Portuguese Camino Coastal Route.

More boardwalk along the Portuguese Camino Coastal Route.

Sue and I walked for two days along the coast and many of those miles were along wooden boardwalks. I have never seen so many miles of continuous boardwalk. If you want to start your Camino gently or just want to take an extended stroll along an ocean, the Portuguese Camino Coastal Route is a good choice.

Kite boarders in the background enjoy a windy day at the beach.

Our hike from Porto to Esposende was not all board walks, there were some dirt trails, country roads and one nasty highway crossing. Still, we were happy with our choice. As Brierley mentions in his guidebook, when it’s blowing hard the coastal route can be a bad option. The first day the headwinds were intense. I secured my hat under my chin like a little buckaroo and used my left hand to keep the brim from blowing down over my face and blocking my vision. After a few hours of hiking my legs and face burned from the sandblasting. We ended our first day by following the Ave River inland to the town of Vila do Conde.

Just before entering Vila do Conde we heard gun fire. The shots were solitary with long pauses in between, like sniper fire. As we approached the bridge that opened onto the town square we heard another, it was closer. On the far side of the river people were screaming and shaking their hands above their heads. On the river in front of them were two men gasping for breath and pulling hard on their paddles, each fighting to cross the finish line first. The gunfire announced the start of the race and the race was part of a month long festival. In Portugal towns often adopt a saint and each June they spend the month celebrating that saint with festivals, carnivals, parades… and all kinds of other events like boat races.

The Francesinha or Frenchie is a tradition around the Porto region of Portugal. It’s a cheese burger sandwich sitting in a tomato/beer sauce.

Another tradition around the Porto region is the Francesinha or Frenchie. It’s a cheese burger sandwich that was adopted from the French around 1960. For an American to see a hamburger sitting in a tomato/beer sauce or to eat a burger with a knife and fork is very odd. In print the Frenchie sounds awful but in person it’s pretty tasty. On our first day out of Porto I had one for lunch and another for dinner.

Seaweed drying along the Portuguese coast.

On our second day hiking along the coast I met an old woman raking sea weed on the beach. She wore a dull housedress and wrapped her hair and wrinkled cheeks in a brown scarf . Closer to the water her husband raked seaweed into tidy squares that resembled mounds of autumn leaves. They were part of the Portuguese sea weed industry. In the 1980’s Portugal was one of the top five sea weed producers in the world; it’s a ten billion dollar industry worldwide. Today Portugal’s contribution is much smaller due to regulations, method of collection and other factors. The big producers like China and Norway use ships and mechanical draggers which are efficient but can cause damage to the seafloor habitat. The Portuguese rake up what the waves wash ashore or use divers, small boats and hand tools to harvest seaweed at low tide. The species of seaweed dictates its usage which can range from a food product to fertilizer. Most of the seaweed collected along the Portuguese Camino Coastal Route is used for fertilizer and animal feed.

The medieval bridge that spans the Cavado River and connects Barcelinhos on the south with Barcelos on the north.

By Esposende we had seen enough of the coast and were ready to go inland and start hiking the Camino Central. The Central route has more hills, trees, farms, people and pilgrims. The bus dropped us off in Barcelos and we started hiking south or backwards towards Barcelinhos where we had a reservation at a hostel. The next morning we would retrace our steps through Barcelos and continue north toward Spain.

First day out of Porto. Strong winds nearly blow off my hat while sand pelts my face and finds it’s way into my mouth.

Camino Portuguese: What I Packed And Why

Before I start writing about our 231 mile walk (371 Km) from Porto, Portugal to Muxia, Spain I thought I should tell you what I carried in my pack and why.

Gear ready to be packed.

The best advice I can give based on two Caminos and an Appalachian Trail hike is pack light and know your boots. A light pack is easy on your body and makes hiking more fun. Whether you are walking the Camino Frances or Portuguese you will pass countless stores selling everything you need to make it to Santiago; when in doubt, leave it at home. And as for the boots, you should have hiked enough miles in them to know that they will not turn your feet into painful oozing stumps by day three or cause you to end your hike early.

The Camino is not a wilderness hike. Each day you will be able to buy food, wine, sun screen, another shirt if you are cold, etc. Typically a 1/2 liter of water with some licorice or bread and cheese carried me to the next town. On some long hot stretches between Lisbon and Porto I carried a full liter. Another advantage of carrying a small pack is it can easily be brought into a cafe or onto a bus without hassle. We did our Camino Frances between August and October and Portuguese between June and July, a twenty-two liter pack was the perfect size for us.

A smaller backpack also allows you to lift weights during your hike.

On the Frances the extra gear I needed for my non-Camino travels I mailed ahead to Iver Rakve in Santiago. He held it for about six weeks and charged me twenty Euros. (http://www.casaivar.com/luggage-storage-in-santiago-de-compostela/index.html). Iver is the founder of the Camino Forum. I carried it over the Pyrenees and mailed it from Pamplona because it was cheaper than mailing it from France and it did not have to go through customs. Without that gear I had 20% more room in my pack, but didn’t need it.

Before I buy boots I make sure I can fit two fingers between my heel and the back of the boot. The extra room allows for foot swelling and prevents my toes from hitting the front of the boot during downhills.

On the Camino you will be walking on sidewalks, asphalt roads and relatively smooth dirt and stone paths. That means you can hike in quick drying, lightweight boots. My feet are happy in Merrell Moab Ventilators. I have worn out at least four pair over a few thousand miles and have never had a blister problem. Boots being too small is the most common cause of foot troubles. Your feet swell as you hike, especially in hot weather. To make sure I don’t buy boots that are too small I slip two fingers in between my heel and the back of my boot. That extra room is necessary on descents to prevent my toes from striking the front of the boot and turning my nail beds black. My wife has bunions which requires a boot to be wider across the base of the toes, the Oboz brand works best for her. A pair of flip-flops is also nice to have since many alburgues require you to leave your boots at the door.

I would not take on a rugged path like the Appalachian Trail without hiking poles. But the Camino Frances and Portuguese are relatively smooth and gentle with miles of city walking, I did not find hiking poles worth the trouble.

When it comes to lodging most pilgrims will sleep each night in an alburgue on a mattress, so unless you are planning on camping I do not see a sleeping bag, pad or tent as a necessity. In place of carrying a ponderous sleeping bag I packed a Reactor Thermolite bag liner that weighed 8 ounces and compressed down to 3x3x5 inches. Despite being a “cold sleeper” I used the blankets provided by the alburgues only once or twice. Before I left home I treated my bag liner, stuff sacks and backpack with Permethrin and had no problems with bedbugs. Premethrin is an odorless product that kills and repels bedbugs, mosquitoes, and ticks for 42 days. You can spray it on clothing, packs, stuff sacks, etc.

The other thing to keep in mind is that every alburgue has a place to hand-wash and hang-dry your clothes, so you don’t need much clothing. I hiked in running shorts that had a built-in liner and a lightweight long sleeve Travel shirt. They dried quickly and the running shorts did not chafe like heavier weight shorts have. Washing my gear took about ten minutes and by morning everything was dry enough to wear again. The exception was my socks, I wore them to bed and by morning they were bone dry. Wearing them to bed worked much better than hanging them off my pack all day. On my Portuguese hike, while my clothes were drying, I wore a T-shirt and a pair of lightweight long pants. I slept in that T-shirt and a second pair of running shorts that I used exclusively for sleeping.

For outer wear I had an old Golite wind shirt, a Marmot Precip jacket and a mesh hat with a broad brim which caused some to ask, “Are you from Texas?” That’s all the clothing I needed for a June – July Camino Portuguese hike.

As for a travel towel I have gotten by happily for decades with just a bandana. I have found nothing rolls up smaller, has as many uses or dries quicker. For washing both my body and clothing I used Lush bar soap.

The red notebook is used for basic journaling; daily milage, overnight stops, etc. The tan notebook is for story writing. In the middle is my credentials with stamps from places visited along the way.

On my Portuguese hike I had no interest in staying connected, blogging or posting on Instagram. I carried a pen, notebook and a small Olympus TG-4 waterproof camera. I did carry an iPod Touch to check email, pay bills and make an occasional reservation. My wife used her iPod Touch with Google Voice and WIFI to call her 97 year old father in New York for free almost daily. One advantage of carrying a camera in addition to my iPod was that I always had enough charge to last all day. My wife used her iPod for both communications and photography, some afternoons it ran out of juice and she had to borrow mine.

I traded the fanny pack (bumbag) I used on the Frances for a shoulder bag on the Portuguese. In that bag I carried the things I wanted with me at all times such as my notebook, passport, iPod, camera, etc. When we stopped at a cafe I could quickly pull it out of my backpack and head inside.

My pack at bedtime. The green sack has my sleep gear and the mesh bag my shave kit. All bags, including my backpack, are treated with Permethrin to kill and repel bedbugs, ticks and mosquitoes.

All my gear was carried in one of three waterproof, Permethrin treated stuff sacks. I prefer them over pack covers. A fourth sack was my shave kit. Just before going to sleep two of the sacks were placed in my backpack and the third one (sleeping gear), along with the shave kit, were clipped to the outside. Clipping the stuff sack and shave kit to my backpack made leaving in the morning easy and forgetting something nearly impossible. It is common to forget or lose things around your bunk in the morning, it’s dark and you’re half asleep. People also forget gear in the bathroom and on clothes lines. A carabiner attached to my backpack with a foot of thin line allowed me to hang it from my bunk. That kept it off the floor and made it easier to pack . Most pilgrims will rise before dawn and on their way out you will hear them tripping over packs, clothing and flip-flops.

So that’s what I packed and why. A gear list is attached for those interested in more detail. I don’t know what all my gear weighed but my pack looked to be 1/3 to 1/2 smaller than most Camino packs. If you don’t agree with my hiking style don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s your Camino, do it your way and have a great time.

The other day I found one of my photos at a dodgy website being sold for wall paper. That was a tacky move and the website was creepy. It kept pulling me in like quicksand, but never took me to where I wanted to go. I think Putin was behind it. So here’s the legal bit I added to my About page.

No, I don’t think this is going to stop the bad guys from stealing my content. But clarification of who owns this content is recommended, as is a copywrite logo. The logo is now in my header. As for watermarks, I’m not interested in scarring my photos, so please enjoy.

Aliados Avenue with Dom Pedro IV on his horse and Porto’s City Hall in the back ground. Just to your right, out of sight, is one of the most beautiful McDonalds in the world. In place of blinking fluorescents it has chandeliers and a real espresso bar.

In every Portuguese city we visited we found clothes drying in the fresh air. These were spotted between the Porto Cathedral and the Ribeira (the popular riverfront area).

Soccer enthusiasts playing in front of the Portuguese Center of Photography. The center had a few photographs and a couple pieces of equipment in one hall. All the other halls were closed, it was a bit of a let down. I hope it was a temporary issue. Porto, Portugal

At the Sao Bento train station over 20,000 Azulejo tiles come together to form images of Portugal’s history. The first blue tiles were placed in 1905, but the station did not open until October 5, 1916. Porto, Portugal

Sue captured this shot with her iPod touch. Porto, Portugal

Just some friends jumping rope on a stage in downtown Porto, Portugal.

Igreja dos Clerigos (Church of the Clergymen), Porto, Portugal. Construction of the church began in 1732 and the 246 foot (75m) bell tower was finally completed in 1754. For a reasonable fee visitors can walk to the top and take in a 360 degree view of the city. The fee includes a self-guided tour of the church and museum.

Porto is to your right, Vila Nova de Gaia with all the Port wine lodges is to your left and if you sail straight up river for an hour or two you’ll be in the terraced vineyards of the Douro River Valley.

Porto, Portugal

The Douro River irrigates the terraced vineyards of the Douro Valley in Portugal and clinging to those vines are the only grapes in Europe that can become Port wine. The river also serves as the border between the city of Porto and Vila Nova de Gaia and for generations it transported barrels of wine downstream to Port lodges (cellars) to be stored, bottled and shipped throughout the world.

Tasting port wine at Augusto’s port wine lodge. It’s one of the few lodges still owned and operated by a Portuguese Family.

Port is a red wine augmented with distilled grape spirits giving it a staggering alcohol content of 20%. General table wines are only 8-14%. Adding the spirits to the wine also stops the fermentation process which leaves more sugar in the barrel and that is why Port wine has a sweet taste. The amount of Port that can be produced each year is based on the quality of the grape harvest. The years when quality is subpar, less Port is allowed to be produced and the grapes harvested are made into wine, but not Port wine. One odd thing about the Port lodges is they are not in Porto, they’re in Vila Nova de Gaia, so if you are interested in doing some Port tasting you’ll need to walk across the bridge and up a hill or two.

A view of Porto from the Torres dos Clerigos

You could also say Porto is the birth place of another famous product, Harry Potter. In 1991, when J. K. Rowling was 26, she came to Porto to teach English. While there, 1991 to 1993, she fell in love, married, gave birth to her daughter, divorced and wrote some early drafts of Harry Potter. She is said to have been inspired by the carved wood and painted interior of the Livraria Lello (Lello bookstore). Many say it reminds them of the shop where Harry bought his wand. The bookstore is small with a three table coffee bar on the second floor but the dramatic red staircase and fine woodworking is beautiful so I thought the three Euro entry fee was worth it.

The Lello bookstore is small but beautiful and was frequented by J.K. Rowling when Harry Potter was just a character in a rough draft. Porto, Portugal

If you’re a J.K. Rowling fan you may also want to stop at the Majestic Cafe. It is said she wrote a draft of “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” there. But don’t plan on writing more than your signature. It is insanely busy these days with tourists, people like us. When the family at the next table asked the waitress to take their photo she refused, “I’m too busy”, she said. And if you plan on having more than a coffee and pastry bring a stack of Euros or a magic wand.

No, this is not Indiana. It is the reflection of Porto, Portugal on the window of an Indian restaurant. The tall gray building on the hill in the center is the Porto Cathedral.

There are all kinds of things to see and do in Porto. But what I enjoyed finding, totally by chance, were two small camera shops selling film, paper and chemicals. And in a glass case across from the fixer and developer were a healthy collection of film cameras at fair prices. From a photographers point of view Porto is a lively, inexpensive, photogenic city with a pleasant climate. An ideal town for a photographic sabbatical, especially if you like street photography. I guess it’s not a bad place to write a best selling novel either. Sadly in the few days we were there I neither created a masterpiece nor penned a best seller. Sue and I simply tasted Port wines, visited museums, churches and markets, found a tasty Indian restaurant, and checked our hiking gear for the next day. Our real Camino was about to begin. For the next 231 miles (371 Km), from Porto to Santiago de Compostela to Finisterre and ending in Muxia on the Atlantic coast of Spain, we would walk. It would become the most enjoyable part of our travels through Portugal and Spain.